


Ev'ry Little Star

by Wintress



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - 1960s, Alternate Universe - High School, And a good comb because curly hair, Angst, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky’s internal monologue is both a massive asshole and his personal cheerleader, First Kiss, Fluff, I REGRET NOTHING, I just really needed to write Rumlow getting punched okay?, M/M, Pining, Slight Internalised Homophobia, Song fic, Steve Rogers is secretly an art geek, The 60s high school fic no one asked for but everyone needs, These idiots reek of self consciousness and probably old spice, This little drabble turned into a vintage super gay meet cute, Winnie Barnes is too good for this earth, alternative universe, the Ma we all need
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-25
Updated: 2017-07-25
Packaged: 2018-12-06 21:28:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11609304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wintress/pseuds/Wintress
Summary: It's 1961, and the song that has rocketed to the charts is following Bucky everywhere. It's being whistled in the grocers, blared from cruising cars, and unfortunately sang from the top of his sister's lungs.Little does Bucky know that in the weeks that this song follows him around, his life will change forever.





	Ev'ry Little Star

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, hello, here's my first fic. So, I took a prompt for a drabble from Surfaces and it turned into almost 16k of imagining these idiots in high school. In the 60s. With an internal monologue running a commentary that drips with sarcasm.
> 
> The prompt was "a song gets stuck in your character's head" and THIS song is one that's followed me for weeks before writing this. It's adorable on a tooth-rottening level....much like this fic. Enjoy!  
> Linda Scott - Ev'ry Little Star  
> https://youtu.be/I6lYDZ8xGVY

Bucky dropped into the old leather seat with a _humph_ , disturbed dust motes shooting up and swirling through the sunbeams shining through the bus windows. He dumped his book back next to him and gripped the bar of the seat in front of him with one hand as the bus started up and rumbled away from his stops. Students piled on every so often, yapping and laughing while the school bus made its way haltingly through the streets of Brooklyn to Thomas Jefferson High. Bucky ignored them, lost in unspecific dozing thought. It was the first day back after Spring Break; finals were approaching, and once those were out the way the end of his senior year was in sight. _Two more months_ , he thought to himself with a slight grimace. _Just gotta make it through two more months then I’m out of here._

  
It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy school – on the contrary, Bucky was a good student. He got decent grades, handed in his homework on time, studied when he needed to. It was everything that came along with attending high school that he hated. The cliques, the jibes, the assholes, the constant need that seemed to flow through every single teen in the school to prove themselves while at the same time acting like they couldn’t care less.

The heavy weight of expectation from adults. And especially in the last year, that sickening feeling of being caught in the middle: of not quite being old enough for what he wanted and too old for what he was used to. As a result, Bucky had spent the past few years floating somewhere on the fringes of life at school. He didn’t have a firm group of friends, just acquaintances who’d share menial chatter when there was nothing better to do. He didn’t belong to any specific clique (or gang, as some of them embarrassingly called themselves). He wasn’t ‘cool’ enough to hang with the upper echelons and didn’t stand out badly enough to become a bully’s Early Bird Special. No, Bucky hung around the outside, and he planned on keeping it that way.

  
It still tugged a little whenever he thought of his year book though, that no one would really remember him enough to leave personal messages. And he kind of hated himself for caring.

  
All too soon, the bus rolled to a stop outside the school. Bucky stood with a sigh, swinging his book back onto his shoulder and waiting until everyone pushed in front of him before he stepped from his seat and followed the line of students slowly disembarking. The driver grunted his good byes as everyone passed, and Bucky caught the tinny tune of a song playing from the battered radio:

  
_…I told, ripples in a brook…made my heart an open book…_

  
He frowned as he stepped off the bus at last: _that song_. That freakin’ song was everywhere. His sister was singing it at the top of her lungs at the weekend while she pressed her skirts, and Mrs Donaghue in the grocers was humming it yesterday when he fetched a quart of milk for his Ma. It was going to end up a real ear worm, he just knew it. Bucky shifted his bag up his shoulder, straightened his collar, and followed the throng of students into the large brick building, ready for his first day back.

  
*

  
The day hadn’t gone well. Not at all. First, Bucky had accidentally set fire to his coat sleeve in Chemistry with a rogue Bunsen burner. Then he’d forgotten the date in English Lit and asked the new substitute for it; Mr Fury hadn’t seemed like all that much of a hard ass at first, but he asked Bucky to stay behind at lunch and write “30th April 1961” two hundred times on the board and had watched him the whole time. Finally, the last class of the day had been a double period of Gym, and he’d spent an hour on the red ash running track, slowly trailing behind and being lapped twice by the large group of laughing jocks while he sweated up a storm in his shorts and vest. They’d had to do what Mr Barton had called ‘calisthenics’ after that, and Bucky genuinely thought he was going to die mid-star jump.

  
Bucky turned to Sam where he stood on his left, and bent over heaving deep breaths while he leaned his hands on his bony knees.  
“Why is it,” Bucky panted while Sam wiped his face with his vest. “We do this shit week in and week out, and it never gets any easier?”

  
“Beats me man, my legs are like jelly,” Sam groaned. Barton overheard them and sent them for five more laps around the track.  
Bucky finally reached the locker room after he’d tripped and skidded across the track, ash and pebbles embedding his knees and palms. Barton had taken pity and sent them both off to get cleaned up. Now everyone was long gone and waiting for the bus or jumping in their cars, and Bucky had the locker room to himself. He took his time showering, buttoning up his check shirt, combining his thick brown hair into a side part, and he stared his reflection down in the mirror when he’d finished. Grey blue eyes set into a pale face, set under firm eyebrows with a square jaw stared right back. _Two more months,_ he repeated his mantra, and let out a long slow breath. The first day back was always the worst. He’d get back into the swing of things, get his head down, and get this last semester over and done with.

  
Bucky turned and promptly smacked into what felt like a brick wall, and stumbled back before losing his footing and crashing to the cold tiled floor with a cry. He winced and rubbed his tail bone, only to look up and see that Brock Rumlow stood in place of the brick wall. A nasty smirk was plastered over his face, and it matched Jack Rollins’, who was looking over his shoulder.

  
“Gotta watch where you’re goin’, kid. Better people’n you have gotten closer than that, and it didn’t end well for them.” He snarked. Jack barked a harsh laugh and Bucky felt his face colour: just his luck to slam into the schools biggest bully. He picked himself up and turned to go to his locker. _Don’t say anything, don’t goad them_ –

  
“M’not a kid, Rumlow.” _Oh Barnes, you fuckin’ idiot_. He felt the two boys draw closer as he reached his locker and pulled out his bag, firmly avoiding looking at them. Rumlow pulled up close and shoved his shoulder, leaning into him.

  
“Oh, really?” He said in Bucky’s ear, softly, dangerously. “Y’look like a kid to me, with your little shirt that Mommy picked out for you and your dumb book bag. Clearly you know who I am…and now I know who you are, I won’t forget your face.” Bucky stared dead ahead, eyes boring into the grey locker door. A clang from outside reverberated through the locker room, and none of them moved when Barton’s voice called through the open door.

  
“Bus is here, if anyone’s left this is your last chance or you’ll miss your ride! Clear out!” Bucky hardly dared to breathe, only glancing round once Rumlow had eased off and shoved him with his shoulder. He stopped by the mirror unit, knocking over Bucky’s glasses with a clatter.

  
“These yours?” He sneered. Bucky said nothing. Rollins strolled past Rumlow, deliberately stomping his foot over the glasses. Plastic crunched and snapped underfoot.

  
“Oops,” Rollins murmured, sharing a grin with Rumlow. They strode out the locker room, and Rumlow called over his shoulder.  
“Consider this a free pass, kid. It won’t happen again. See ya around.”

  
Bucky let out a shaky breath once they were gone, and made his way to his glasses. The black plastic had snapped cleanly down the middle of the bridge, thankfully the lenses were intact. He picked them up and stowed him in his pocket, sighing.

  
_Stupid, stupid, stupid. Couldn’t keep yer trap shut, could you? Had to run that motor mouth - and now look. Idiot. What’s Ma gonna say? We can’t afford new glasses_ –  
He lost himself in his thoughts, silently berating himself while he quickened his pace and made his way outside. Some of the jocks from his Gym class were sat in a shiny red Chevy Bel Air, music blaring from it’s speakers. Bucky caught a few lines of the song and looked over while he hurried along the path around the carpark:

  
_...Maybe, you could love me too…oh my darling if you do…why haven’t you told me?_

  
That fuckin’ song again. One of the boys leaning against the hood of the car looked up and caught Bucky’s eye: tall, built, blonde. Steve Rogers, the football team’s linebacker. He slipped his hands into the pockets of his blue Letterman jacket and gave Bucky a little smile, and Bucky startled a little. He gave an awkward nod back and ducked his head, walking quicker around the path and the edge of the school building…just in time to see the bus pulling away.

  
“Aw, come on!” He yelled, throwing his hands up in frustration and letting them fall back to his thighs with a slap. He groaned to himself, hoisted his bag onto both shoulders and began the long walk home, wondering how the hell he was going to tell this to his Ma.

  
*

  
Tuesday went a lot better than Monday had. He didn’t break anything, he managed to avoid Rumlow and Rollins, and he hadn’t set anything on fire. He was even on time for the bus home. Bucky went to push his glassed up his nose, faltered, and felt a little guilty pit open up in his stomach. He’d managed to hide them from his Ma, but she’d followed him out the door that morning.

  
“James, your glasses!” She’d called from the front stoop.

  
“I got ‘em Ma, they’re in my bag,” He’d yelled back, and she’d nodded warmly at him, rubbing her hands with a dish rag.

  
“As long as you do – have a good day, baby!” He’d blushed bright red and slumped into the nearest seat. He wouldn’t get away with that forever, and he hated lying to his Ma.  
And yet, he’d made it through the day relatively unscathed. He’d made a point to avoid Rumlow, even when it meant ducking into the girl’s bathroom when he caught sight of him rounding the corner. He’d practically sprinted from Shop when the final bell had rang, signalling the end of the day. Bucky had almost made it to the queue of people waiting to get on the bus home when a voice called from behind him.

  
“Hey! Hold on a second!” He turned around to see Steve jogging easily towards him, waving a hand out. _Stupid Steve with his stupid perfect hair and his stupid perfect car_. Bucky shocked himself a little at that, not usually one for thinking badly of people. Steve had never done anything to him – sure, he’d pretty much never acknowledged his existence for the two years they’d been at school together, but he’d never been nasty. Bucky held back, gaze flicking to the shortening line of people boarding the bus as Steve reached him.

  
“Hey Rogers,” He said uncertainly, gripping the strap of his book bag. “What’s up?” _Why are you even talking to me?_

  
“Nothing much, just wanted to see if you were okay,” Steve said. _Huh?_

  
When Bucky did nothing but stare blankly at him, Steve cleared his throat and shoved his hands into his Letterman pockets. “I saw Brock and Jack leaving the Gym before you yesterday, they looked pretty pleased with themselves. They didn’t beat you up or anything, did they?”

  
_Like you care?_ Bucky shook his head. “Nah, they were just actin’ like jerks. Should’ve known it’d be my turn eventually.” He managed a pathetic attempt at a smile. When Steve grinned back, it was like his whole face opened up – his blue eyes crinkled at the corners, his brows creased slightly, and those rosy lips –  
_Okay, that’s kind of unsettling. And pretty. In an unsettling way._

  
“Well as long as they left you alone. They try any of their shit, you come to me, okay?” Steve said, his tone genuine.

  
“Why?” Bucky frowned. “Think I can’t handle myself, Rogers?” _Oh for chrissake_. Steve’s brow cocked a little before he corrected it, schooling his expression into an easy smile.

  
“Course you can, Jim.”

  
“Huh? Jim?”

  
“What, you don’t go by Jim?” Steve’s face fell almost comically, and Bucky huffed a little.

  
“No, I’m James.” _Ahh, the school hermit strikes again – he doesn’t even know your name._ Steve rubbed his neck and laughed self-consciously.

  
“Sorry man, I didn’t know if you still went by -”

  
“My friends call me Bucky though,” He interrupted quickly. _Yeah, they would if you had any, loser._ Steve smiled again and clapped him on the shoulder, almost knocking him sideways.

  
“Course they do,” Steve grinned. “See you around, Buck.” He turned and jogged back to the carpark, leaving Bucky standing with a stupid blank expression on his face as he stared after him. The bus driver’s gruff voice from behind him made him jolt.

  
“Hey kid, you gettin’ on or what? I ain’t got all day,” Bucky whipped around and scrambled onto the bus, dropping into a seat and scanning the carpark through the dirty window. He caught sight of the red Chevy, and watched Steve sitting with his friends until the bus grumbled into gear and they rolled out of sight.

  
_Well, then. And that stupid song hasn’t even played all day either. One for the books, Bucky boy._

  
*

  
That night, his day-long streak of avoiding what he’d come to think of as That Song was broken. His Ma had the radio playing when she cooked, and it played twice in the space of an hour. Bucky could hear it through the thin walls of their apartment and he groaned when the little tune floated through the first time. The second time, he simply dropped his head to his open book with a thud and groaned. Then Mr Coulson from upstairs was humming along to it when he came home from work, and Bucky could hear him as he made his way up to his apartment. _Does he have to sing the whole thing? Really?_

  
_Of course_ Becca would also be singing it – at the top of her lungs while they washed dishes. Bucky was tempted to tip the basin of sudsy dirty water over her head to shut her up.

  
“Dum, da dum, da da da da da da –"

  
“Shut up!” He hissed, elbow deep in dishwater and getting grumpier by the minute.

  
“DA DA DUM! WHY –“ Becca yelled in his ear, and Bucky flicked the dish rag at her.

  
“Quit it!”

  
“ – HAVEN’T I TOLD YOU!”

  
“Cut it out, both of you!” Bucky’s Ma squeezed past them in the tiny kitchen, balancing a mountainous basket of laundry against her hip. “I’m going down to the washers, when I get back these dishes better be finished and this kitchen had better gleam, y’hear me?”

  
“Yes Ma,” They droned in reply. She shot an eyebrow up, an expression that Becca had worryingly perfected in recent years, before she turned and left the flat with a bang of the door. Bucky glowered at Becca from the corner of his eye and she blew him a kiss.

  
“So,” She said a few minutes later, leaning against the counter as she dried a plate. “When’re you gonna tell Ma you broke your glasses?” That little pang of guilt jerked through Bucky again, and he scowled at her. Becca maintained her air of innocence, paying particularly close attention to an invisible spot on the plate. “What, like you think I didn’t notice?”

  
“I didn’t break 'em.”

  
“Yeah right, like you expect me to believe that.” She rolled her eyes and put the plate away with a clatter. Bucky said nothing, up-ending the basin and letting the dish water pour down the plug. He turned and strode out the kitchen, making it to the hall before Becca called after him. “Buck – hey, Bucky!”

  
“I’m goin’ to help Ma!” He shouted back, letting the apartment door shut behind him as he plodded down the stone steps. His footfall echoed around the staircase as he made his way down, sweet Spring air breezing in through the open front door. His Ma caught him on the main landing, her brows furrowed. _Oh, shit. Too late._

  
“Care to explain why I found your glasses in pieces, James?” She asked, holding out the offending black plastic in an outstretched palm. “Kept them in your bag, my ass. When’d you break ‘em?”

  
“Aw jeez….look Ma, I –”

  
“Don’t you ‘look Ma’ me! Do you know how much it costs to buy a new pair? We can’t afford -”

  
“I didn’t mean it, it was -” Bucky rubbed his ear and was interrupted by a knock at the building's main door.

  
“Hey is Bucky – oh, your glasses!” Bucky turned to see Steve stood awkwardly by the brownstone’s main door, eyebrows furrowed as he looked between Bucky and the snapped black plastic in his Ma’s hand. “It was Rumlow, wasn’t it? I knew he’d done something to you.”

  
_You couldn’t just keep yer trap shut Rogers, huh?_ His Ma’s face darkned and she waved the offending glasses at Bucky.

  
“Rumlow? That no good bum Gerald’s kid? Bucky why didn’t you tell me?”

  
“No – aw, Ma, nothing happened – Steve, it was an accident, I dropped ‘em –” Bucky felt himself flapping his hands uselessly as he tried to explain, but Steve folded his arms resolutely.

  
“So that’s what he stayed behind in Gym for.” Steve frowned.

  
“Are you okay? Did he hurt you?” Bucky ducked his head from his Ma’s hands trying to check his face for bruises and stepped back to stand beside Steve, holding his palms out placatingly.

  
“No, I’m fine – Ma, I’m fine – they just broke my glasses, that’s all. I’ll tape ‘em and they’ll be good as new, okay? I’m sorry I lied, but it’s not that big a deal –”

  
“The hell it is! Don’t let that punk push you around or I’ll march right up to his father’s door!” His Ma jabbed his glasses warningly at Bucky before turning to go back down the stairs. “Go on, get out of my hair - but mark my words you'll be the one fixin' these tonight. And those dishes had better be finished by the time I come back up!”

  
“Yeah, Ma.” Bucky called back, turning to Steve. He still looked like he was ready to start something, but Bucky shook his head and huffed an embarrassed laugh. “She’ll do it too. She’d drag his Pop right out by the ear and beat ‘im black and blue right on the street.”

  
“I don’t doubt it, pal.” Steve grinned, shoving his hands in his pockets.

  
“What’re you doing here anyway?” Bucky asked. They ambled out to the front stoop, dropping onto the high steps to sit. _More to the point, how’d you find out where I live? It’s a bit weird having Steve fuckin’ Rogers show up on my doorstep._

  
“Ah…I used to live round the corner? I kinda thought you still lived here. I was, uh, looking to ask a favour.” Steve rubbed his neck, not meeting Bucky’s eyes. _Does he always do this when he’s embarrassed? …It’s kinda cute._

  
“Uh huh. Spit it out then Rogers,” Bucky grinned.

  
“Well, I know it’s kinda late in the year, but we had this project to do for art class – see for our final piece, we’ ve gotta draw something we know well, and something that’s new. Try to see things in a different light, make the familiar unusual and make the unknown more comfortable, kinda thing. Uh…I’m not explaining it too well.” _Wait a minute…_

  
“So you wanna draw me, is that it?” Bucky joked, but Steve’s face blushed a brilliant fuschia and he immediately felt bad. “Oh. You do.”

  
“I mean – yeah, if you don’t mind – portraiture is kind of my thing, so I was gonna use Coach Barton as my ‘something familiar’ and you for my something new, because – and don’t take this the wrong way – you don’t look anything like you did when we were kids,” Bucky leaned back into the hard iron railings while he thought it over, Steve looking him over with a little nervous expression. _When we were kids?_

  
“Did we know eachother?” Bucky asked. Steve smiled right back and nodded eagerly.

  
“Yeah, we went all the way through elementary together – I mean, my Mom died and I lived with my Aunt in Montauk, but we moved back a year and a half ago.” Steve explained. Bucky still eyed him with confusion and Steve rolled his eyes with exaggeration. “You still don’t remember? Bucky, we were thick as thieves for years before I moved! I was this skinny drip of a kid, with a god awful hair cut and –“

  
“Bright yellow hearing aids?” Bucky sat up with a jolt, the memory resurfacing: a tiny blond boy, valiantly holding his own behind the bicycle sheds against two older boys, shrugging Bucky off once he’d jumped into the fray and helped out, both of them grinning through burst lips and bloody noses. They were six years old and felt like they could take on the world. “ _Stevie_? Stevie Grant?!” _Now who’s the one who should be embarrassed? The guy was your best friend for five years, y’lived in eachothers pocket pretty much, and you didn’t even recognise him? Not even a little?_

  
If Bucky looked, if he really looked, there were certain traits of the old Steve that shone through; the slope of his Roman nose, that faded-denim blue shade in his eyes, the cowlick at the top of his head that had come loose from its Brylcreem hold. Bucky remembered when they were younger, whenever Stevie had been due a hair cut that cowlick had turned into a proper curl, the only ringlette in his otherwise poker-straight blond hair.

  
_Not Stevie. He's Steve now._

  
“Uh…yeah, puberty kinda hit like a freight train,” Steve grinned, slightly abashed. He rubbed his neck and averted his eyes. _Yeah, you’re telling me. Is he acting adorable on purpose?!_ “I knew you as soon as I saw you. But I didn’t wanna just run up and be like ‘Hey pal, I got big and changed my name!’ y’know?”

  
“It woulda eased the shock a little, yeah,” Bucky joked, and they shared a smile. “I gotta ask though, pal. Why didn’t you? Not as if I’m fightin’ to fit all my friends in a diner booth or anything.” Bucky had tried to come across as joking, but winced internally at how self-pitying he sounded. Steve’s features softened a little as he shuffled on the stoop - getting comfortable or squirming, Bucky couldn’t tell which.

  
“I mean…I turned up on that first day of school, looked for you everywhere – then I finally saw you in Calculus, and I got so excited – I couldn’t believe you’d be sitting behind me for the next two years, and when I smiled at you and sat down you just kinda…looked me over like you didn’t know who I was. And I was still goin’ through the whole self-conscious thing and I didn’t wanna push it – so I didn’t.” Steve shrugged but Bucky could see the genuine remorse in his face. “I should’ve though.”

  
_Say somethin’ – don’t be even more of an asshole than you already are, Barnes._  
“And I shoulda recognised the kid I ran around getting into scraps with and stealin’ gooseberries with for five years,” Bucky grinned, nudging Steve’s sneaker with his battered own. “S’fine. What do they feed you in Montauk anyway? Plant food? You’re built like Paul Bunyan!”

  
“I worked fishing boats to help keep the house with my Aunt. Guess there’s somethin’ in those old wives tales about the sea air doing a fella good, huh?” Steve chuckled, easing up. After a pause, he asked shyly, “So…will you do it?” _I’ll do something, that’s for sure – oh god, Bucky, shut up, stop thinking_.

  
“I don’t gotta pose in the nude, do I?” Bucky said intead. Steve blushed furiously and choked out a laugh.

  
“No! God no, just sit for a couple of sessions. We got a free period after Calculus on a Friday, so we can do it then if you like?” Steve said, a hopeful look on his face.

  
“Yeah – yeah, okay. I’ll do it.” Bucky grinned, and Steve flashed him another one of those blinding smiles.

  
“Great – I mean, yeah, thanks. Honestly. Uh…I guess I’ll see you in class?” Steve stood and Bucky followed, leaning awkwardly back against the hand rails.

  
“See you in class, Steve.” Bucky nodded and Steve set off with a little wave, shoving his hands into his Letterman pockets and strolling around the street corner. Bucky stood where he was, trying to let the weirdness of the situation settle in while the evening fell. _Just don’t make an ass outta yourself, he doesn’t know how much of a loser you are yet._

  
_Or maybe he does, and he doesn’t care._

  
Bucky shook his head and stepped inside, taking the stairs two at a time and wincing as he opened the door to _That Song_ playing faintly from the radio in the kitchen. _Ugh, guess you can’t win ‘em all._

  
*

  
Bucky willed his first week back to pass by as quickly as possible, but it dragged like molasses on a cold spoon. Eventually Friday rolled around, and he was watching the clock at lunchtime from his seat on a side bench. He munched his way through a bologna sandwich that his Ma had packed (“ _Eat it all James, including the crusts, y’hear?_ ”) and crushed its paper bag into a ball before wincing and remembering it would have to keep for his lunch next week, flattening it out and folding it before tucking it into his book bag. Bucky’s glasses slipped a little down his nose and he pushed them up with his knuckle; he’d glued the middle together again messily the night Steve had turned up on his door step, and the adhesive had left sticky fingerprints around the frame he couldn’t quite scrape off properly.

But that had all been forgotten when Bucky had walked into English Lit the next day to see Steve sitting near the back, nodding in his direction and giving a little smile before turning back to his buddies. Bucky hadn’t realised how many classes they’d shared, and he felt like kicking himself even as he was pulling his things together to leave the cafeteria.

  
_All this time you’ve sat in class with him, and you didn’t recognise your childhood best friend? Y’got some swell powers of perception there, Bucky._ True, Bucky didn’t really have any reason to recognise him; they ran in different circles, and he’d noticed since their little reunion on his front stoop that Steve had gone out of his way to acknowledge him whenever their crossed paths, but he still hung around with his football buddies. _Ain’t no reason why he’d suddenly drop his group of pals to kick around with the likes of you, don’t be so narcissistic._

Bucky understood it, he supposed; it would look weird for one of the school’s top football players to ignore his friends for someone he used to know out of nowhere. Bucky didn’t mind so much, in fact it gave him a little thrill to have someone who even acknowledged his presence.

  
He was still deep in thought when he left the cafeteria, and once the bell had rung he made his way to Calculus. Bucky found himself torn between pretending to organise his books and flicking his gaze to the door to watch Steve coming in. Soon, class started, and Professor Coulson had started to drone on. His concentration was finally slipping twenty minutes later when Steve burst through the door.

  
“Sorry – sorry! We had practice at lunch and got a little carried away!” He panted, and Coulson eyed him steadily over his shoulder.  
“Just don’t let it happen again, Mr. Rogers. Now, as I was saying –” He turned back to scribbling on the chalkboard, and Steve dropped his seat in front of Bucky. He looked over his shoulder while he pulled books from his bag, grinning and slightly sweaty. _Oh jesus – is this guy for real?_

  
“Hey,” Steve whispered.

  
“Hey yourself,” Bucky mumbled back, and Steve shot him a grin, turning quickly back to the front before Coulson could chew him out for talking in class. Bucky watched him shrug off his blue Letterman, hunching over to take notes, fascinated by the spread of his shoulders beneath his shirt, how the dampness at the back of his head from exertion darkened his blonde hair – _what the hell, why are you eyeing him like that?! Like what you see?_ Bucky shook himself a little, trying to steady his thoughts, and went back to his book. Before long though, he couldn’t help glancing up to run his eyes stealthily over Steve every so often. _Can’t hurt a little just to look, can it? ….Oh what the hell. Why not._

  
The hour passed quicker than Bucky really wanted it to.

  
*

  
He wandered around the art classroom, inspecting the different pieces adorning the walls and cluttering the sideboards. Steve had to let Barton know he was using his free period for study instead of practice, so he’d given Bucky the directions to the room before jogging out of Calculus.  
Bucky picked up a strange-looking pot, with four arms and two spouts jutting out of its belly, painted in a bizarre glittery purple. He turned it over in his hands when a voice from the door made him jolt.

  
“Y’break it, y’bought it.” Bucky scrambled to catch the pot and clutch it to his chest, and Steve burst out laughing at him.

  
“Jesus, Rogers,” Bucky grumbled, placing the pot back on the sideboard. “Tryin’ to give me a heart attack?”

  
“Nah, but it’s funny to watch,” Steve smirked. He dumped his bag and grabbed a small easel from the corner, pulling out various pencils and rubbery erasers from random jars as he passed by.

  
“So, uh…where’d you want me?” Bucky said, feeling slightly self-conscious. _He’s gonna be staring at you for the next hour…and yet you wanted to invite that kinda scrutiny. Dumb ass._

  
“Next to that window, it’s got the best light this time of day.” Steve jabbed a pencil in the direction of the far window, and grabbed a large sketchbook from inside a sideboard. He tucked it under his arm and easily juggled his supplies, and Bucky followed, twiddling one of his loose shirt buttons between his fingers. He’d tried to dress up a little nicer today, but had over starched his shirt, and the checkered material felt alien and stiff against his skin. Not to mention his hair wouldn’t sit right, and a rogue curl kept escaping his careful coif to brush his forehead. He swept it back hastily as he perched onto a tall stool, shuffling around to try to get comfortable. Steve set up his easel and sketchbook, and laid out his pencils on a table beside him, pulling up a stool for himself.

  
“You want me to strike a pose? Make myself real pretty?” Bucky tried to joke lamely, but he felt himself blush at how ridiculous he sounded. _Real smooth - no wonder you haven’t had a date since 9th grade._

  
“Nah, just…I dunno, sit how you’d usually sit. You can talk and stuff, you don’t gotta act like you’re getting’ your picture taken,” Steve said from behind the easel. He poked his head up, a wicked grin on his face. “Turn to the left a little, closer to the window…yeah, like that. Aren’t you glad you aren’t doing this naked?”

  
Bucky’s flush deepened furiously, and he ran his hands back through his hair again.  
“Just make sure you get my good side, punk.” He grumbled. Steve chuckled at him, and the soft scratch of pencils on paper filled the air. They fell into silence, and Bucky struggled to think of things to say that wouldn’t sound like he was just talking to fill the gaps in conversation. _Which is exactly what yer tryin’ to do._

  
“So… Barton was okay with you takin’ time off from practice?” He asked.

  
“Yeah, he always says studies come first. He’s a good guy.” The soft scribbling didn’t pause as Steve spoke. “Though I guess you’d think the opposite, considerin’ how hard he ragged on you the other day,”

  
“Huh. Yeah. Me ‘n Wilson thought we were gonna collapse on the field,” Bucky groaned. “I hate exercise.”

  
“It’s good for you. Not that you need it,” Steve added quickly, peeking from behind his book.  
“Easy for you to say, not all of us are blessed with the athletic ability of a fuckin’ gazelle.” Bucky snorted. He immediately regretted his words when he saw Steve’s shoulder jerk a little. _Motor mouth strikes again._ “Wait – sorry, that was kinda rude -”

  
“Nah, it’s fine.” Steve said quietly. “Most people didn’t recognise me when I came back from Montauk. I mean, I was gone six whole years. The ones that did recognie me forgot real quick how I used to be,” He gestured with his pencil to the small grey piece in his ear and smiled at Bucky, who relaxed a little. “Easy to forget I was the little kid who always got sick and wore tin cans on his ears. These are a little more discreet than the old ones.”

  
“I still feel bad that I forgot,” Bucky said after a pause. He’d thought all week about the days spent playing outside after school, rainy lunch times where they’d stayed in class and played tic tac toe and soldiers, eating jelly sandwiches on Steve’s back stoop while his Ma hung out washing and sang. “And – and about your Ma too. I’m sorry, Steve.”

  
“It’s okay, Buck. Really, I made my peace with it years ago. She’s in a better place.” Steve said gently. They fell quiet again, and Bucky let his gaze drift out the window as his thoughts wandered. _Think about it – all those years you could’ve caught up, stayed pals…maybe you would’ve got into football, maybe you would’ve made more friends. Coulda been popular – I mean, not that that’s real important, but life could’ve been so different for you. Less lonely._

  
Bucky glanced back at Steve when the soft scratching of his pencil stopped; he was frowning at his page, twirling the pencil between his fingers like a baton. He considered another from his pile, fingers hovering over a group of pencils, and picked another one up to resume sketching. Bucky tilted his chin up a little, trying to see over the top of the sketchbook and catch sight of his face again. _Pal, you’re treadin’ a dangerous line._ Steve suddenly lifted his head, his blue eyes widening slightly.

  
“That – yeah, whatever you’ve just done, stay like that – perfect!” He flicked the page over in his sketchbook to a new one and started scribbling furiously, pencil racing across the page with new vigour. Bucky startled and froze, trying to stay stock still. “Jeez, you can relax a little – you ain’t a statue, Barnes.” Steve sounded amused, and Bucky stuck his tongue out at him.

  
“Am I gonna get to see it when you’re done?” Bucky asked after a while. The art tower overlooked the football field and running pitch, and the shouts of Coach Barton were rising up through the open window occaisionally. “Or is it top secret?”

  
“Nah, you can see my complete character study if you like, but not the progress sketches.” Steve shrugged. “They’re just to get me used to drawing you – help me decide how I want you to sit, what lighting I want, yadda yadda. Artist crap.”

  
_It ain’t crap when you talk about it,_ Bucky thought, but kept his mouth shut. He’d tried to keep his attention focused on the football practice outside, but his eyes kept rolling towards Steve working. Every time he lifted his head over the easel to study him, Bucky felt warmth spreading through his chest, and twitched his lips to keep a stupid smile from pulling at them. Steve had left when the boys were 10, and since then Bucky had missed the switch that had pulled for most boys to realise they were interested in girls. He’d went on a few dates, but had left uninterested and hadn’t bothered chasing out more. He figured he’d wait for the right one…but he’d never felt like this before. This didn’t feel like the overexaggerated declarations of love he’d read about in his Ma’s Mills and Boone novels he’d sneaked a read from….but it was something he’d never felt before in his life.

_Yeah, it’s somethin’, alright. You’ve gone and gotten a crush – on Steve Rogers of all people._ The thought made his eyes widen and his stomach plummet.

  
_Nah. Surely not, don’t be ridiculous. Well…Y’cant stop lookin’ at him. His smile’s makin’ you wanna grin like a loon. You’re sittin’ there makin’ goo-goo eyes like a girl. Face it Bucky, you’ve got a crush on him._

  
_I’ve got a crush on Steve Rogers. Aw, hell._

  
“Bucky?” His head snapped up to Steve closing his sketch book. “Earth to Bucky, anyone home?”

  
“Aw – heh, sorry. Was thinkin’.” Bucky huffed.  
“Yeah well, don’t think too hard, don’t hurt yourself,” Steve grinned. _Stop it! Stop that right now!_ He gathered up his pencils with a light, wooden tinkling sound and started putting his supplies away. “You can come down now, hour’s up,”

  
“Thank god, my ass went numb about ten minutes in,” Bucky joked. _Don’t lie Barnes, you coulda sat there all day if he asked you to_. He scooped up his bag and leaned against the edge of a table, watching Steve tidy up after himself. “You sure I can’t see your sketches?”

  
“Nah, you wouldn’t wanna. They’re just loose scribbles, pretty much.” Steve said, looking slightly embarrassed. He looked up from trying to cram his easel in beside the others. “Let me get all this put away, I can catch you up?”

  
“Sure you don't need a hand?"

"Pretty sure I can manage an easel and a book, Bucky." Steve said drily.

"Well if you're positive you can put away those big heavy art supplies - meet you outside?” Bucky rolled his eyes with a grin, and Steve nodded. He walked out, leaving the blond to tidy his things away. Bucky barely made it to the bottom of the art tower when his shoulder was rammed hard enough to knock him into the bannister of the stairs, and he grabbed it to stop himself from toppling over. Rumlow smirked at him, leaning against the exit doors with his arms folded in front of his chest. A pack of cigarettes were tucked in his shirt sleeve, a small rectangle that jutted out against his wiry arms.

  
“Goin’ somewhere, _kid_?” He sneered. Jack Rollins joined him, strolling lazily from underneath the stair well, a cigarette hanging from his curled lip.

  
“Cut it out, Rumlow. Just lemme past, I don’t want any trouble.” Bucky muttered, pulling himself upright and adjusting his bag. He gripped the handle, hoping he wouldn’t have to swing it at them; he didn’t want to have to explain that to his Ma.

  
“Neither do we, but the way I see it, we didn’t exactly get to finish what we started,” Rumlow pushed off from the wall and stepped slowly closer. “We gonna have a problem with you?”

  
“No,” murmured Bucky, ducking his head and pushing his glasses back up his nose.

  
“Aw look Brock, he fixed his glasses,” Jack laughed. “Did your mama glue ‘em back together?”

  
“Don’t you talk about my fuckin’ Ma, Rollins,” Bucky snapped, glaring at him. Rumlow raised his eyebrows in mock surprise and shared a look with his cronie.

  
“Aw lookie, kid found his mouth again!” He drew up close to Bucky, who was gripping his bag strap so hard his knuckles turned white. “Guess he didn’t learn from it last time either, huh? We can break your teeth as easy as we broke your glasses, four-eyes,” _Just keep quiet. Ignore them. Push past. Don’t want any trouble._

  
Bucky would have, too. But he didn’t account for Steve Rogers.

  
“Hey!” A voice snapped from above him, and Bucky stopped himself from groaning when he saw Steve stomping down the stairs. “Back off Rumlow.” Steve crowded Rumlow and Rollins, drawing himself up to full height.

  
“Fuck off Rogers, like you’d do anything to ruin that football scholarship you’re ridin’ on,” Rumlow sneered, but Steve was having none of it.

  
“I said. Back. Off. I ain’t above kickin’ your ass and you know it.” Steve stared him down for a few moments, before Rumlow scoffed and kept scowling at him and elbowed Rollins.

  
“C’mon. We’ll get him later.” He muttered as they slunk back off up the stairs.

  
“The hell you will. I catch you anywhere near Bucky and I’ll break your fuckin’ jaw,” growled Steve. _Aw, fuck. Cat’s outta the bag._ Rumlow paused and shot a nasty smile at them, before turning to Rollins.

  
“Bucky, huh? Now we know his name. See you later kid, we’ll catch you when your boyfriend ain’t around.”

  
When they’d gone, Bucky let out a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding.

  
“Are you alright? Those assholes, I swear –”

  
“You didn’t have to fight my corner, Steve. I can deal with those pricks,” Bucky mumbled, but there was no real annoyance behind his words. _Boyfriend? Ugh, Rumlow, of all the people to plant those kinda words in my head –_

  
“Shaddap,” Steve hooked his arm around Bucky’s neck and shook him a little, walking him out and pushing the fire doors open. “You’d’ve done the same for me. Ignore ‘em, okay? They’re full of shit.” Bucky rolled his eyes, trying to ignore how that simple gesture left his shoulders burning under the heat of Steve’s arm draped over them, and the somersaults his stomach seemed hell bent on performing. They reached the carpark, just in time for Bucky to see his bus rolling away.

  
“Aw, hell.” He said, deflated. _Another long walk home, another argument with yourself, and now you can probably spend the hour over-analysing everything Steve has ever said to you. You’re in for a world of fun, asshole_. “There goes my bus.”

  
“Do – uh, d’you wanna ride home?” Steve said haltingly, gesturing to his car. Bucky perked right up at the sight of the bright red Chevy on the far side of the car park and caught Steve’s eye uncertainly.

  
“You sure?” He asked and Steve shook his shoulders again before dropping his arm, rifling through his pockets for his keys.

  
“Yeah, you’re near my block, jump in.” Steve spun his keys on his finger while he loped towards his car, and Bucky hurried to keep up, feeling more inadequate by the second. _He’s gorgeous, his cars gorgeous, he’s talented, he plays football – why are you even entertaining this, Barnes?_

  
“Is it true what Rumlow said?” Bucky blurted out, trying to shut his mind up for one damn second. Steve looked at him strangely as they walked. “That you’re gettin’ a football scholarship?”

  
“Nah. I wanna go to art school,” Steve’s smile was small, almost abashed; he’s embarrassed, Bucky thought. He was slowly relearning Steve’s old traits and tells, reacquainting familiar gestures with this new iteration of the boy he grew up with.  
“But someone started the rumour, so I’ve just let it roll around. Figure I’d rather they think that than know the truth, I’d get ragged on somethin’ awful for goin’ to art school.”

  
“I don’t see why,” Bucky mumbled, suddenly taking great interest in his loose button again to avoid Steve’s curious gaze. “If you like something, don’t get why you should be ashamed of it. Fuck what people think.” _Yeah buddy, now you just gotta apply that logic to yourself – oh no, wait, you won’t. Because you’re a dumb ass who falls for pretty blond football playing artists._

  
Steve paused for a moment, and they reached the car. “Y’know what, I think you’ve got a point.” He said, smiling warmly at Bucky, who refused to acknowledge the things that did to his insides. They sat in, slammed their doors shut, and as soon as Steve turned his key the radio clicked on.

  
_…Friends ask me, am I in love – I always answer yes, might as well confess….if the answer’s yes…_

  
“Aw man, I _love_ this song!” Steve grinned, and proceeded to sing along as he pulled out of the parking lot. Bucky turned away, folding his arms tight across his chest. _That song. It had to be that freakin’ song, didn’t it? Fuck you, Linda Scott._

  
*

  
They fell into something of a routine as the days became warmer, and April melted into May. Bucky would share a silent greeting with Steve when they entered class, never speaking more than to ask mundane things like borrowing erasers or what the answer to number four was. Steve would nod at him from across the carpark and Bucky would jut his chin up with a grin as he boarded the bus. Steve would play football on his free periods while Bucky worked on his end of year project in Shop class. But on Fridays, it was an entirely different story. Fridays were a day full of anticipation for Bucky, until 6th period rolled around and he’d meet Steve in the art tower, for a full hour of jokes and jibes and warm, increasingly comfortable silence.

  
At least, it was silent out loud. Bucky struggled with himself more and more as the weeks passed.

  
That first day Steve had dropped him home, Bucky had managed to convince himself it was a harmless crush (one his sister apparently shared, he realised with a painful wince when Becca started screaming and demanding to know since when _Steve Fuckin’ Rogers_ had started driving him around.). But it was becoming more and more difficult to contain himself; he stared at Steve whenever he could, drinking in his appearance like cold lemonade on a hot day. Every word rattled him, and every smile pooled warm puddles in his brain.

He was getting more frustrated with himself too: some days Bucky could handle himself, joking along naturally and letting every word that came out his mouth sound smooth and practiced, feeling smug whenever he caused Steve to shake with a huge belly laugh. Other days, he was jittery, nervous, stuttering and every sentence he managed to squeeze out sounded awkward and he immediately regretted opening his mouth. He worried he was becoming too obvious, and sometimes…sometimes he hoped he was too obvious, in the same way he hoped Steve would feel the same. Not like that’s gonna happen. _Get it through your thick skull. He’s not messed up like you are._

  
Today was one of the ‘awkward’ days for sure. Friday had rolled around finally, and Bucky sat in his usual spot in the art class, kicking his legs out and swinging them from his high stool. The air was heavy and sticky with heat, and his shirt was clinging to him. He growled as he swept his hands through his dark hair again only for that one rogue curl to flick back against his forehead. Steve was fifteen minutes late, and Bucky felt a little ashamed for how agitated it was making him; even the thought of having less than an hour with him. _You’re so far gone you can’t even see it._

  
Bucky dropped down from the stool and wandered around the classroom, trying to pass the time by looking at a group of new clay sculptures. A half-shut door on the sideboard caught his eye; where Steve kept his sketchbook. Steve had already said how embarrassed it made him, how the sketches were just helping him for the final piece he was finishing in class, and Bucky had respected his wishes and stopped asking to see what Steve had been doing in the hours spent on lazy Friday afternoons. His eyes flicked towards the empty door, and he heard no signs of anyone coming. _Don’t do it, asshole – don’t be that guy._

  
Before he could stop himself, Bucky dipped into the open cupboard and angled out Steve’s book. He balanced it on his arm – _don’t you fucking dare, don’t_ – and opened it.

There were a few scribbles and a couple of detailed close up drawings on the first page; the brim of a cap, sunglasses on a long broken nose, Coach Barton’s open mouth while mid-shout. He flicked forward a couple of pages of much of the same, including one of Barton sat, leaning against the wall in the locker room with a shit eating grin on his face, arms folded against his chest. Another turn of the page, and Bucky recognised bits and pieces of his own face; his eyes squinted behind broken glasses, his mouth twisted in a wry grin. The next page held more detailed, larger sketches – including one from the neck up, of him with his chin tilted up while he gazed off out the window.

_Wait a minute_.

Bucky frowned as he flicked through the rest of the book; Barton’s pieces had tapered off, while increasingly more detailed pieces of him filled the pages. His eyes, over and over – happy, concerned, thoughtful, creased in a smile. _Christ, I didn’t realise Steve was this good. These are so detailed_. The dimple of his chin. The scar on his temple from where he fell down the steps when he was seven. The rogue curl on his forehead. His forearms. His neck. More of his eyes –

  
“What’re you doing?” Steve demanded from the door, and Bucky snapped the book shut. Steve’s brows were furrowed, his blue eyes darting between Bucky and the sketch book. “I thought I told you not to look at this –“

  
“Sorry – you were late –“ Steve strode forward and snatched the book from Bucky, tucking it under his arm, retreating to a safe distance. _For fuck sake Bucky, you’ve really done it this time._

  
“How much did you see?” Steve said in a low voice. Bucky huffed with exasperation and threw his hands up.

  
“Not much! I dunno, a couple pages?” Bucky folded his arms and leaned against the desk, feeling equal parts guilty and grumpy. Steve eyed him from under furrowed brows and sighed.

  
“I asked you not to look, Buck. That’s a huge invasion of my privacy.” Steve admonished. Instead of taking the lecture, it did what lectures usually did to Bucky and had the opposite effect. Steve could say black and Bucky would protest white. Steve could explain why something was right and Bucky would go blue in the face listing things wrong about it. _Hey, just keep your temper. Don’t piss him off any more than you already have done. He’s got a point. Be reasonable._

  
Bucky huffed and shifted against the desk. “Yeah well, y’took yer time.”

  
“Yeah, cause I was tryin’ to get outta practice! You know I’ve gotta throw the guys off my scent so I can come up here –“

  
“I don’t see why you even bother, y’know.” Bucky scoffed. “Actin’ like you gotta cover up everything that makes you you. You’re always hidin’! You even hide me from them –“ Bucky started to protest, and Steve rolled his eyes as he interrupted him.

  
_Or just fuck being reasonable and be an asshole instead, Bucky. Because that always works for you, huh?_

  
“Oh please, I ain’t hidin’ anythin’!” Steve drawled, and Bucky felt his face colour _. Oh yeah_?

  
“Like hell you ain’t Rogers – it’s like you’re embarrassed to be seen with me,” Bucky challenged. Steve frowned at him.

  
“Don’t be a heel Buck, I’d never –“

  
“Then why don’t you talk to me in class, huh?” Bucky said hotly, letting his hopes for the last few weeks come out as frustration. “Why don’t you sit with me at lunch? Why’d you only drive me home on Fridays, once everyone’s gone and no one can see you with me? You’re embarrassed of me Steve, admit it –“

  
“No I’m not!” Steve said hotly, the hand not holding his sketchbook balled into a fist.

  
“You’re embarrassed,” Bucky ranted, talking over Steve. “To even be around me! The school’s best football player can’t be caught slummin’ it with the likes’a Bucky Barnes, the school’s biggest loser, can he? Can’t risk that reputation, bein’ seen with a dork like me! Can’t be caught doin’ art instead-a sports –“

  
“Shut up,” Steve warned. “Bucky, I’m serious –“

  
“And so am I!” Bucky snapped at him, stamping closer and pointing his finger at his face. “You’re hidin’ me like you’re hidin’ this – all of this –“ He gestured grandly around the room with his hand, but didn’t once take his eyes off Steve. “- Cause you’re embarrassed. Or you’re afraid. Is it cause I remember you from before? Because I knew you best? Because I still liked you before you were Mr Football Player of the Year, Mr Muscle Beach? Is that what you’re afraid of, that people’ll know what you’re really like?”

  
“And how the hell’d you know?”” Steve cried, slamming his book down with a bang that made Bucky jump. “How would you know what it’s like to be afraid?”

  
“Oh I’d know a lot pal, trust me!” Bucky shouted. “I finally make a friend, and he’s fuckin’ embarrassed of me, and I’m terrified the school year’s gonna finish and I’ll never see him again – then I look through his sketchbook and it’s just fulla these – these beautiful drawin’s, and I dunno _what_ to think any more!” Steve froze, staring him down while Bucky almost panted from shouting and trying to ignore the lump in his throat and the tears pricking his eyes.  _Cry when yer angry, then get angry cause yer cryin', and the vicious circle goes on._

  
“So yeah, Rogers, I think I know what it’s like to be scared. Because I’m fuckin’ _terrified_ I’m gonna lose my best friend – my only friend, really – and that he’s gonna lose himself too and that hurts just as bad.” Bucky’s voice broke on the last word, and for a strained, heavy moment they locked eyes – Steve’s blue own were wide with surprise, Bucky’s red with the effort to blink away hot, angry tears.

  
_Don’t – fucking don’t, don’t ruin this, just walk away – leave it –_

  
For once Bucky listened to himself, and turned on his heel to storm outside the room. Steve didn’t follow as he stomped down the steps and pushed out the fire doors with a bang, striding through the carpark. He was half an hour early for the bus, but Bucky loped past the front of the building and onto the pavement, walking home with heavy steps. His brain had shut up for once; no admonishment or sarcasm or self-loathing sneers came. Instead he was left in silence as he made his way back.

  
*

  
He felt like the beautiful weather was mocking him. He walked along sidewalks dappled with sunbeams and shadows from trees overhead, his face set like stone. Before long his stomping steps slowed to an amble, and he heaved a sigh to try to collect himself. Bucky was already more than half way home, and the main town had given way to blocks of apartments and brownstones.

_The diner is just around the corner, maybe you can grab a shake and some pie, try to think over how to fix this. If you can fix this._ The ‘diner’ was a small ground-floor apartment that had been converted to a neighbourhood café, and served home cooked meals and sweets. Bucky disappeared there every so often when he felt like things were getting on top of him. All he had to do was round the corner and it would be there.

  
Unfortunately, so was Rumlow.

  
Bucky spotted him first, fixing his inky black hair in the reflection of a car window. Bucky froze, eyes flicking around him to find the nearest escape route, before Brock clocked him. He stood up straight, leather jacket creaking, and a smug smile stretched across his lips.

  
“Where’s your boyfriend, Bucky?” He snarked, walking lazily toward him. Bucky stood stock still, all his frustration from earlier seemingly siphoned away after he’d stomped home. Brock eyed him like prey, taking his time to close the distance between them. _Kinda late to the party here pal, but you might wanna move before he knocks your block off…_

  
Self-preservation kicked in, and Bucky quickly stepped to it, slipping between two parked cars to jaywalk across the street.

  
“Where you goin’, huh? C’mere!” Brock broke any pretences about being coy, and ran across the road to stop short in front of Bucky. He looked him over with a sneer: Bucky felt panic rising sharply up his belly. _Fuck. FUCK._ “Not so big now you don’t have Rogers at your back, are ya?” He looked over Bucky’s shoulder with a grin; strong hands gripped his arms and twisted them painfully behind his back. Bucky yelped as he struggled with Rollins, who scoffed.

  
“Lemme go! I ain’t done nothin’!” Bucky yelled, and he let out an _oof_ as Brock punched his stomach hard. Bucky wheezed as the wind was knocked out of him and pain bloomed in his torso, barely getting a breath in as Brock socked him on the chin in a swift uppercut, and he bit down on his lip hard.

The punches came thick and fast – his chest, his cheek, his stomach again, and finally a blinding smack to his temple turned his vision white and his knees gave way. Rollins let go and Bucky dropped to the ground with a thud, tearing his shirt sleeve open, and Rollins booted him square between his shoulders. Pain bloomed as Brock aimed a kick into his stomach again, and Bucky spat out blood from his burst lip as the screech of tyres filled his ears. There were thuds and shouts and the sickening smack of skin meeting skin, but Bucky could hardly get his bearings.

  
“Shoulda known you’d be back for your boyfriend, Rogers! Gettin’ tired? UGH!”  
“I can do this all – _oof_ –“ He squeezed his eyes open, one of them already swelling shut, and saw Steve taking a crack across his nose before landing a final hit on Rumlow, knocking him clean out. _What the hell just happened? Where’d he even come from?_

  
“Ugh,” Bucky groaned, trying to pull himself to his feet before strong hands gripped under his armpits and hauled him up.

  
“Easy, just hold on –“ Steve started, when a woman started yelling at them from the diner.

  
“The hell’s goin’ on here?! I ain’t havin’ brawlin’ in my own street! Get outta here before I call the cops!” She called.

  
“Sorry – call ‘em on these assholes, they started it!” Steve yelled back, and started half-carrying Bucky to his car. _Can’t even think straight – is my nose broken? Aw jeez, it’s picture day next week, can’t have a bust up face in my yearbook photo - is Stevie hurt? Is he okay? My freakin' back is killin' me –_ “Buck, can y’hear me?”

  
“Nngh…yeah. Hurts.” Bucky mumbled. Steve helped bundle him into the Chevy, before jogging round and jumping in the drivers seat.

  
“Come on, let’s get you home. Is your Ma home? Will Becca be back yet?” He revved up and drove off. Bucky leaned back against the seat, head lolling as they turned corners. _So dizzy. Think the old noggin took a crack on the sidewalk when I went down. Fuckin’ Rumlow._

  
“Fuckin’ Rumlow.” Bucky said. Steve snorted, but when Bucky peeked over at him there was no amusement in his expression. Instead his brows were knit in a tight frown, and his lips were a thin line.

  
“Yeah. Shouldn’t’ve left you. I’m sorry.” He said thickly. Blood was trickling in a steady stream from his nose, but he didn’t seem to notice.

  
“Shurrup,” Bucky grunted, waving his hand. “They’ve had it in for me for weeks. Was only a matter a’time.” They rolled up outside Bucky’s apartment and Steve killed the engine, getting out to help Bucky stand. He wrapped an arm under his shoulder – _jeez, maybe I should enjoy this_ – and Steve hauled him out the car, taking their time on the steps. He adjusted his grip on Bucky and lowered him gently to lean against the iron railings of the front stoop.

  
“I’ll go get your Ma –“ Steve started, but Bucky shook his head sluggishly, clearing it slightly.

  
“No one’s home,” He muttered. “Becca’s got band practice and Ma helps out at the Grocer’s on a Friday.” He felt for his keys in his pocket and shoved them towards Steve, who jogged up stairs and disappeared.

Bucky’s dizziness abated a little more now he was sitting still and upright, and he groaned to himself. _Idiot. Course they’d be waiting for you. What would you do if Steve hadn’t shown up when he did? You’d be pulp on the pavement, pal._

  
A few minutes later, Steve pounded back down stairs and dropped beside Bucky on the stoop, armed with rubbing alcohol, a wet rag, and a bag of ice. Bucky raised his eyebrows and Steve shrugged.

  
“Borrowed some from Coulson, remembered he had an ice box.” He said with a grin, and Bucky smiled back. His face and torso were in agony, and he knew he was going to hurt more tomorrow. Steve dipped the end of the rag in the alcohol, and leaned towards Bucky. _Woah, woah woah – hold on! Not so close!_ Bucky jerked back, and Steve rolled his eyes in exasperation.

  
“Just hold still, will you? Gotta clean the dirt out your face, asshole.” Bucky grunted and winced as Steve gently cleaned his face, the alcohol stinging scrapes he’d barely been aware of before. Wordlessly, he switched to the other end of the damp rag, and it turned dark with blood and dirt before long. _Stop staring at him – you already made him uncomfortable. Stop it! Ugh. His eyes are so blue though._ Bucky couldn’t help it. He trailed his gaze over Steve’s face, drinking in the details. Cornflower blue eyes, a smudge of dirt high on his cheek, a smear of dark red under his nose where it had finally stopped bleeding. Steve caught Bucky’s eye and held his gaze.

  
“How you doin’ there, Barnes?” He said steadily. Bucky shrugged, feeling a sharp jolt of pain down his shoulder blade and ignoring. _Man, that’s gonna hurt in the mornin’._

  
“Holdin’ up just fine Rogers. This is kinda familiar, huh? Sat here with bloody noses.” Bucky said quietly. Steve huffed a small laugh and his mouth curled up in a smile.

  
“Sure is. For once it’s me cleanin’ you up.” He dabbed a little more at Bucky’s temple and dropped the rag. As he started screwing the cap on the rubbing alcohol, the smudge on his cheek caught the sunlight and proved to be a bruise, blooming a deep purple under his skin. _His skin looks so soft…I wonder… might not be the best idea but let’s be honest here pal, you ain’t exactly known for ‘em._

  
Bucky lifted his hand slowly to Steve’s face, and barely brushed the bruise with his fingertips. Steve froze, his hand hovering above the soiled rag he’d been reaching for. He flicked his eyes towards Bucky, who didn’t dare let himself breathe. He slowly traced his finger across the bruise, and Steve leaned a little into his touch. _Is he…he lettin’ you do this? Is this okay? Are you freaking him out? Because you’re kinda freaked out too._ Bucky gently brought his hand fully to Steve’s face, cupped his cheek lightly. They held eachothers stare for a few more seconds before a car backfired in the street, the crack of the exhaust pipe echoing through the air like a gunshot and making them spring apart. Bucky held his hand suspended in mid-air where he’d held it to Steve’s cheek for a second before he grabbed the makeshift icepack, pressing it to the pain slowly working its way through his shoulder to give it something to do. _Idiot. Idiot. IDIOT._

  
A pink tinge appeared high on Steve’s cheeks, and he started to rub the back of his neck awkwardly. He caught Bucky’s eye and they both laughed nervously; the moment was gone, but the tension lingered like a weighted blanket. _C’mon man, you got him dragged into a punch up – think he’s owed an apology._

  
“Listen…Steve.” Buck cleared his throat and shifted on the top step to turn and face Steve properly, who was looking on earnestly. “I’m sorry, pal. I shouldn’t’ve looked through your book. I-”

  
“It’s done, Bucky. Don’t worry about it.” Steve shrugged with a smile. “I mean…yeah, it’s a violation of my privacy and all that, but what happened, happened. It’s alright. Just don’t do it again or I’ll come for you next!” He skiffed his knuckles across Bucky’s jaw in a mock punch and they both burst out laughing. The contact kicked Bucky’s heartbeat up a notch and he couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face.

  
“I dunno man, I think I could take you,” He said sarcastically. Steve was about to reply when a loud gasp made them whip their heads towards the bottom of the stoop, where Bucky’s Ma stood with a hand pressed to her mouth _. Aw, shit_.

  
“James! Steven! What the hell happened here?!” she cried, bundling herself up the stairs and pulling up her bright green grocer’s apron to drop to a crouch in front of Bucky. Her hands wandered over the dirtied rags and alcohol bottle, and she leant over Bucky to see the makeshift icepack he held to his shoulder. “Are you alright? Was it Rumlow? I swear, I’m gonna rip his old man a new one – when I get my hands on him –”

  
“Ma, we’re fine – don’t go to Rumlow’s house _please_ -”

  
“It’s alright Mrs. Barnes, the other guys are worse off,” Steve cut in. She whipped her head around, and Bucky was fully prepared for her to show Steve the full might of her infamous Winnifred Barnes Death Glare; instead, Steve grinned at her. _Has the guy got a deathwish or what?!_ Dried blood was caked around his nose, a split on his plump lip opened slightly as he beamed at Winnifried, and he snickered. She stared incredulously at him before he burst into peals of laughter, and Bucky couldn’t help joining him, clutching his stomach and doubling over before long. His Ma stood up, her hands on her hips, and shook her head at the two young men laughing themselves into red faces and teary eyes.

  
“You two are somethin’ else – y’haven’t changed a bit, not one bit, have you?” There was no admonishment behind their words, only a soft fondness, but Bucky couldn’t hear that over his own giggling. She rapped him on the top of the head with her knuckles and picked up the rag and rubbing alcohol, squeezing past them to step inside the building. Their laughter settled and Bucky wiped a tear from his eye, squeezing his lips together to stop them from smiling. “This better not be a regular thing, boys! Oh, and Steven darlin’? You got a little somethin’ on your cheek.”

  
They caught eachother’s eye as Bucky’s Ma headed upstairs and chuckled again, all tension dissipated. They shifted and settled almost in unison, wriggling to get comfortable on the hard stone steps of the front stoop. _Alright, you’re hurtin’. You’re sore. You’re gonna moan an’ groan like an old man when you try to get up in the morning…and Rumlow’s probably gonna be hunting for you for the rest of your natural born life as long as you live in Brooklyn… but this? Right here? This is pretty much perfect. I mean, look at him – even covered in his own blood he’s the most adorable thing you’ve ever seen. Drink it up, Buck. Appreciate the moment._

  
And so he did. Steve sat close, his large shoulder pressed lightly against Bucky’s through his torn shirt. Bucky drew his knees up and rested his arms loosely on top, while Steve stretched out languidly, crossing his ankles and leaning back on his elbows, his head lolled back and eyes closed. Bucky chanced a glance at him and smiled to himself. Above them, Bucky’s Ma flung open a window and music floated out:

  
_“…I told every little star, just how sweet I think you are, why haven’t I told you…”_

  
Bucky grunted and shook his head. Steve peeped an eye open and raised his brow.  
“What is it?” Amusement crept into Steve’s voice. _What do you mean ‘what is it’? It’s you! You drive me fuckin’ crazy! With those eyes and those arms and bein’ Steve fuckin’ Rogers!_

  
“That song,” Bucky said instead. The sun peeked out from a clump of clouds, and Bucky squinted and shielded his eyes with a hand smudged with dirt. “That fuckin’ song. It’s been followin’ me around for weeks, it’s stuck in my head.”

  
“A real ear worm, huh?” Steve grinned. _See? He knows!_ Steve chuckled to himself and closed his eyes again, settling back against the steps. “Only you could get annoyed about a song on the radio, Buck. Astounding.”

  
“Nah, you love me for it.” Bucky brushed off, then froze. _Big mouth strikes again._ Steve snorted and paused before replying softly,  
“Yeah. I do.” They fell into silence, letting the sun beat down on them and the soft breeze carry errant leaves and the cries of school children running home through the street, blowing past two dirtied, bloody young men relaxing on the front stoop.

  
*

  
Bucky and Steve spent the weekend the same way; hanging around the front stoop, chatting and relaxing in the Spring sunshine. Bucky’s Ma would pretend to be annoyed, but would still bring down glasses of lemonade and sandwiches with a warning that they’d better be finished by the time she came back. Becca would find as many excuses as possible to squeeze by them to get in and out of the building; Bucky was sure she’d ‘forgotten’ groceries she was supposed to pick up at least three times before he’d rolled his eyes and asked her if she wanted to sit with them. All she’d answered in return was a flippant jut of her chin and a retort that she had better things to be getting on with. Neither he nor Steve missed how she’d blushed and squeaked when Steve had flashed a smile at her.

  
A new school week began, and Bucky was delighted to catch sight of Rumlow and Rollins skulking through the corridors beaten black and blue. They did nothing but scowl at him and elbow him as they walked past, but Bucky supposed he’d take that over being beaten into the pavement any day. Bucky didn’t look much better, and it made it worthwhile whenever Steve shot him a grin that was hardly marred by his puffed up lip. He felt a weight lift from his shoulders that he hadn’t even been aware of, and found himself spending the week grinning to himself like a loon. Between SATs and final exams and presenting his end of year project in Shop class, Bucky and Steve had been kept busier than ever, but still managed to pass little smirks and glances in the classes they shared.

  
In Monday’s English Lit, instead of strolling past and winking like he normally did, Steve had dropped his bag and sat at Bucky’s desk before class started, chatting animatedly about practice and how he thought he’d done on his SATs. It didn’t escape Bucky’s notice how his friends had tried to grill Steve about why he’d bothered talking to him of all people when the class started, but a little thrill ran through him when he heard Steve say, “He’s a great guy, I won’t hear a bad word against him.” At the end of class, when the lunch bell rang, Steve and his group pulled up to where Bucky was packing his books away.

  
“Wanna come have lunch with us, Bucky?” Bucky’s stomach swooped at the thought. _That fuckin’ smile he’s got on his face ain’t helpin’ matters. We could probably do better than lunch with the Hair Bear Bunch though…_

  
“Wish I could, Rogers. I got an assignment to finish up for art class – thanks though,” He said innocently, strolling out the classroom – not before he caught Steve’s bewildered look morphing into realisation. Not even two minutes after Bucky had picked the lock to their usual classroom in the art tower, Steve had come barrelling through the door and pulled two peanut butter sandwiches out of his bag with a grin: it summed up how they spent their lunch hours for the rest of the week.

  
Friday rolled around all too quickly, and he woke up to his Ma singing to herself. He ambled sleepily into the kitchen where the smell of warm starch filled the air, and his Ma was pressing a dark blue shirt with a vengeance. He furrowed his brow, his brain not quite catching up yet, when Becca spilled into the kitchen in her pyjamas clutching a plethora of petticoats to her chest.

  
“It’s picture day!” She trilled, twirling around and swinging the skirts.

  
“Watch it Becca, those’ll melt if they catch the iron!” His Ma cried. Bucky dropped to his chair with a growing pit of dread in his stomach. _Aw shit, the last picture day you’ll have to sit through and you’re gonna rock up with a shiner the size of New York._

  
“Oh no,” Bucky whined. “Ma, don’t make me, please –”

  
“You hush, James. You’re gonna look so handsome – I found a tie –”

  
“Ma!” Bucky cried, horrified. “No! Not a _tie_!”

  
“Well…a bow tie,” She pondered, before going back to pressing his shirt evenly.  
“ _Ma_! That’s even worse!”

  
“It’s got spots on it, to go with your plain shirt –”

  
“Please, no –”

  
“Between Becca’s new dress, and your new shirt…kids, you’re gonna look wonderful.” Winnifried carried on, deliberately ignoring Bucky. He noticed that his shirt was indeed brand new. _That’ll be why Ma was pickin’ up extra shifts at the grocery…aw man, you can’t say no now_. “Go wash your face – remember behind your ears!” That was Ma’s thinly veiled threat to get his ass in gear or she’d drag him and scrub him under the cold tap herself. Bucky dragged himself to his feet, and Becca followed him to the bathroom with a skip in her step.

  
“Sure I can’t stick some make up on you? Cover those shiners?” She grinned, dodging him as he batted harmlessly behind her.

  
“Shut up, Becca.” Bucky muttered, standing in front of the tiny shaving mirror and inspecting the yellowing bruises across his face. They weren’t as bad as they could have been; the worst of it was spread across his body, deep in his tissue. Becca hesitated, and he caught her eye in the mirror, chewing her lip; a habit she’d picked up from him. He sighed dramatically. “Sorry. I hate picture day.”

  
“I know.” She said in a pensive voice. She ruffled her skirts at him. “Wanna make yourself useful? Which colour should I choose?”

  
“Becca, you won’t even see ‘em. The photos are from the waist up.”

  
“Yeah, I know, but still!”

  
“Fine. What colour’s the dress?” Bucky groaned.

  
“White, and it has red flowers, and a yellow sash –“

  
“Ugh, okay. Yellow?” He pointed, turning back to the sink to wash his face.

  
“You’re a real pal – it matches yer bruises, Buddy Holly!” Becca yelled, darting out the bathroom before Bucky could throw the soap at her.

  
*

  
Bucky stood in line for the photographer, fidgeting and sweating and glancing around at others in the line. Everyone was dressed to the nines, split between chatting animatedly among their friends or doing the same as him and having kittens over their appearance.

  
_Fuckin’ shirt is itchy and my bow tie won’t sit right and my hair won’t do what it’s supposed to – and did I mention the fuckin’ bow tie?! Oh man. I’m so glad this is the last time I do this. Never again. I’m gonna avoid a camera as long as I live. When it comes to birthdays and christenings and weddings I’m gonna rabbit punch the photographer and run a mile_ –

  
His rambling thoughts were interrupted as Steve elbowed him. Bucky yelped and almost jumped a foot in the air, turning to glare at the blond but not quite managing it before a smile peeked through. He was wearing a crisp white shirt and new Levi’s, with his trademark blue Letterman straining at the shoulder seams. _Even with bruises he looks like a fuckin’ movie star. How is that fair?_

  
“You were miles away Buck,” Steve said playfully. “You’re gonna end up with your photo in the yearbook of you catchin’ flies.”

  
“Oh god. Don’t.” Bucky groaned. He swept his hands through his thick brown hair again, trying to make it sit in the neat waves he’d managed that morning. True to form, the little rogue curl at the front of his hairline popped down to tickle his eyebrow. He growled with frustration and gestured viciously towards the offending lock of hair.

“This is what I gotta deal with! Stupid hair and stupid bow ties and stupid shirts –” He clamped his mouth shut when Steve raised an eyebrow and brought his hands up to his chest. Bucky held his breath without realising as Steve carefully, gently adjusted his bow tie and placed his hands on his shoulders.

  
“Your stupid bow tie is adorable.” Steve said quietly. “Your stupid shirt looks great on you. And your stupid hair?” He brushed his finger tip across the rogue curl on Bucky’s forehead and a soft smile played across his lips. “I love your stupid hair. Especially when it doesn’t behave. Now relax, you’ll be fine.”

Bucky let out his breath in a huff of embarrassed laughter, ducking his head while Steve dropped his hands again. _He’s trying to kill you. Literally tryin’ to kill you._

  
“Do you have to be this perfect all the time?” Bucky drawled, trying to regain a little composure in spite of his flushed cheeks. He knew Steve could read there was no bite to his words though, because he shot him a smirk and squeezed his arm.

  
“Can’t help it. Now knock ‘em dead, Buck, I’ll see you in the tower.” Steve wandered off and Bucky had to stop himself whipping around and checking for suspicious expressions from his fellow students over their little exchange. The photographer yelled ‘Next!’ and Bucky pushed his glasses up his nose, more out of pure habit than necessity, took a breath, and stalked forward to the makeshift booth. A stool was set up against a cloudy blue background, draped with a bizarre mix of fake velour and sequined fabrics in various shades of red. He hopped onto the stool, flattened his bow tie, and had to stop himself from smoothing his hair back again. _Just breathe; it’s just like sittin’ for Stevie…except you’re in the gym hall instead of the tower, and there’s students everywhere, and you look like you’re posin’ for a patriotic burlesque act._

  
“Ready?” The photographer asked with a thoroughly disinterested drone. Bucky swallowed thickly and nodded rapidly. His rogue curl bounced just above his eyebrows, just on the peripherals of his vision above his thick frames, and when Steve’s words came to him a genuine sun-splitting smile stretched across his face in time for the camera flash to go off, leaving bright spots dancing in his vision.

  
*

  
Bucky practically vibrated in his seat the whole way through Calculus. Steve had practice this afternoon for the final game that night and was given permission to skip the class – but considering the exams were all over, Bucky had been hoping they’d all be let off with turning up – and the mounting tension in the air at school was palpable. They only had two weeks left before their senior year and high school careers were finally over, and every single student had a bounce in their step and a growing sense of anxiety and impatience that was synonymous with the beginning of summer.

  
He was so highly strung that when the bell finally rang, Bucky almost yelped and had to stop himself from jerking out of his seat with surprise. He practically threw his textbook in his bag and was first out the door, before Coulson had even finished talking. _What does that guy have left to talk about anyway? We’re done for the year!_

  
The end of senior year and all the celebrations and opportunities it promised wasn’t the only thing to play on Bucky’s mind; after the mixed emotions that Picture Day always plagued him with, he had his final Friday afternoon with Steve in the art tower. Steve had promised to let him see his finished piece, and Bucky couldn’t help but feel as though that canvas represented the dam-break that was surely due after the past months of mounting tension between them.

Scattered thoughts and broken ideas and worries ran through his mind as he walked as quickly as he could towards the tower without drawing attention from the hall monitors.

  
_It honestly feels like this is it – make or break – does he really feel the same way I do? Has he just been entertainin’, panderin’ to me, just to get this project done and outta the way? Nah – he cares, he does – he was there through the whole Rumlow thing, he was there when I was a kid – didn’t even fuckin’ recognise him and he knew me on first sight – GOD, I just wanna grab him and kiss him sometimes – it’s gettin’ harder and harder to hide it –_

  
Bucky squeezed his eyes shut for a second and shook his head to try to shut his rampaging thoughts up. He took the stairs to the tower two at a time, jogged along the corridor in a strange half-run-limp and skidded into their usual classroom to see Steve standing in front of his canvas, the radio playing rock ‘n’ roll quietly on the window sill beside him, arms folded and brows pressed together in a frown. His Ltterman was dumped unceremoniously beside a pile of tarps. Steve dropped his arms as Bucky tried to compose himself and fix where his shirt was coming untucked from his jeans.

  
“Jeez Buck, did you strap rockets to your sneaks or somethin’?” He grinned, choosing to ignore the bird Bucky flipped his way.

  
“Some of us have to run from the other end of the school to get here, asshole.” Bucky shot back, wandering towards him. _Fuck – so unfit – gym class for twice a week all these years has clearly done jack shit_. “So, uh…you gonna show me it or what?” He tried to play it casual, sound as jokey as possible, but the atmosphere in the airy room suddenly crashed into claustrophobia, a weight pressing on his chest like an anvil. Steve clearly felt it too; he pulled his arms back up to hug his ribs, drumming his knuckles on his elbows as he ducked Bucky’s gaze, that little line between his brows creasing back to the surface again. He opened his mouth once, twice, and shut it again wordlessly. Bucky didn’t know what to say or do, scared to tip the balance the wrong way and startle Steve or blurt out something he really didn’t want his friend to hear. Steve eventually looked to Bucky, to the covered canvas and back again, and sighed heavily.

  
“Look…before I show you, it’s… It’s not – just don’t take it the wrong way, yeah?” Steve finally let out in a strained voice, flapping his hands uselessly towards the canvas. Bucky felt his eyebrow cock up in question and he stepped a little closer.

  
“Steve, whatever it is, I ain’t gonna judge. It’s me, pal.” He knuckled Steve’s shoulder gently and shoved his hands deep in his pockets so he wouldn’t be tempted to touch him again. “I mean, unless you’re hidin’ a nude portrait of Coach Barton under there, you’re fine. I promise.”

  
Steve smiled weakly and gripped the edge of the tarp covering the easel. He glanced sideways at Bucky for a moment, before taking a deep breath and whipping it off with a flourish and a flurry of little dust motes, revealing the piece on the canvas underneath. It took a couple of seconds for Bucky to register what was on it.

  
He didn’t know what he had been expecting – a standard portrayal of his upper body, a full portrait of him sitting awkwardly on the stool, a close up study of his hands sprouting out from under the cuffs of one of his ugly shirts. Well, he was wearing one of his ugly shirts for sure, but what greeted Bucky made his breath catch in his throat. _I thought that shit only ever happened in stories._

  
It was him all right – the attention to detail was insane. He had some idea of how closely Steve had been studying him over the weeks, especially since their bust-up over him looking through his sketchbook, but this wasn’t detail for art’s sake. The pencil strokes were almost loving, rendering him in a way that Bucky almost didn’t recognise. His eyes were soft, glinting in the afternoon sunlight; his hair was shining in thick waves, with that fucking stupid curl brushing a raised eyebrow. His lips were slightly chapped, cocked up in an open half-smile. His arms were folded across his chest, wrinkling the checked shirt with the sleeves rolled up that Steve had shaded and smoothed and darkened, close attention paid to every single element, right down to the rip on the cuff and the random freckle above Bucky’s left wrist. The portrait was in black and white but it burst with life and movement and vitality. And there, right beneath his taped-together glasses, a healing bruise graced his cheek in shades of mottled grey.  
Bucky had no words, unspoken or otherwise.  
Steve had laced his fingers together and rested them against the back of his neck, standing fraught beside him as the silence stretched and became more fraught as the seconds wore on.

  
“I – I added the bruise this afternoon, skipped practice just to go over it and get it right,” Steve stammered. “Barton’s gonna be pissed, but I just wanted it to be perfect. ‘Cause you’re both – you’re my somethin’ old and my somethin’ new. You’re so familiar but there’s so many new things about you – like those coke-bottle glasses and bein’ covered in scrapes from scrappin’ with me in the streets – but now you’re taller, and quieter, and you look good – different good, but still… uh… still _really good_ – and you still got that dimple in your chin, and –”

  
“Steve, you’re ramblin’ pal,” Bucky choked out, tearing himself away from the drawing to face the blond, who was pale with blue eyes blown wide with worry. “Do yourself a favour and shut the fuck up before you give yourself an asthma attack, yeah?”

  
“ – And you still got that filthy fuckin’ mouth, Barnes.” Steve half-laughed, half-sighed, and his shoulders visibly dropped from their tight lift that had almost touched his reddening ears. “Sorry, I know it seems weird –”

  
“It’s fuckin’ amazin’, is what it is,” Bucky interrupted before Steve could start dragging himself. “You…you made me look like that? You got everything – like, everything – it’s insane. I don’t think it’s weird. I think it’s incredible.” Bucky tried to keep his voice level, but he was sure that his heart hammering away ten to the dozen in his chest was causing it to waver. _His somethin’ old – his somethin’ familiar – god, Steve, do you even know what you’re doin’ to me?_

  
“Thanks, Bucky. Seriously.” Steve said quietly, dropping his eyes and crossing his arms tight across his big chest again. “It’s….yeah. Thanks.” The air was fraught with words unsaid and the pounding of hearts. Bucky shifted his stance, biting his lip, and took a step forward. He faltered for a moment, before gently grasping both of Steve’s shoulders.

  
“No, I’m serious. You’re so fuckin’ talented Steve. You’re out there playin’ football when you can do things like…things like this?” He gestured towards the canvas, and when he turned back to Steve his eyes were on him warily. “I don’t know why you got so mad at me looking at your sketchbook when this is the kind of level you’re at. Y’made me look like a real James Dean, you punk.”

  
“That’s cause you are, jerk,” Steve said in a defeated voice. He sat down on the desk behind him heavily and huffed.

  
“So why are you so down on yourself? What didn’t you want me to see?” Bucky let the words leave his lips before he could stop them, keeping his hand steadily on Steve’s shoulders. The blond drew a breath and let it out with a soft huff, as though he was gearing up.

  
“I didn’t want you to see…how I see you. I didn’t want you to get freaked out or – I dunno – think I’m…” Steve barked out a harsh laugh and his face looked pained. “It’s you, alright? You’re my somethin’ unknown. My somethin’ familiar. I didn’t think it’d happen – that I’d feel like this, but it has, okay? And I can’t help it. And I got all these stupid expectations on me – play football, go county with it, settle with a nice girl and the white picket fence and the house and the kids, and fuckin’ play pretend – and I can’t do that Bucky, I can’t, I’m lyin’ to myself –“ Steve stopped himself and took a steadying breath again. Bucky’s stomach felt like it had dropped through his knees and his heartbeat was so quick and loud it felt like galloping in his ears. “All of that means nothin’ if I don’t have anythin’ meaningful in my life, Buck. What’s the point in all that if I can’t do what I love – if I can’t draw, if I can’t have you? I… I got mad at you for lookin’ ‘cause I never thought in a million years you’d feel the same…I didn’t want to stop bein’ pals. It was selfish, and this is wrong, but I can’t help the way I feel about you –”

  
A thought came to Bucky – an impulse, so loud and so strong it drowned Steve out.

  
“- I mean, I understand if you don’t wanna see me again –”

  
_Kiss me._

  
“ – or if you wanna tell me to fuck off and tell me how much of a freak I am, I get it, I do –”

  
So he voiced it.

  
“Kiss me.” Bucky said, quiet and firm. Steve stopped rambling mid-sentence, staring at Bucky with wide, shocked blue eyes. His back immediately straightened from its slump, ramrod straight, and when he finally spoke again he struggled with stringing words together.

  
“I – wha – what?”

  
Bucky tightened his grip on Steve’s shoulder, trying to bolster the initial courage that had now left him. He inched closer, dropping his head slightly to look at Steve up through his eyelashes, desperate to channel how fucking serious he was. “I said fuckin’ _kiss me_ , you asshole – are you deaf?”

  
Steve sat still, a pregnant pause weighing on them as his own baby blues were bored into Bucky’s steel grey stare. Just as a stab of panic clutched Bucky’s gut – _this is wrong, fuck, I’ve totally taken the whole thing the wrong way – FUCK_ – Steve grabbed the front of Bucky’s shirt and surged forward in a heavy kiss. It was awkward – a class of lips and teeth and a muffled grunt from somewhere deep in Bucky’s throat – but when Steve pulled back slightly to gauge his reaction, Bucky bit his lip and watched Steve’s eyes drag down to his mouth. Wordlessly, Bucky cupped Steve’s jaw none too gently and pulled him back in properly to kiss him hard.

  
The tension from the past day, week, month – _all this time_ – was channelled into their lips moving together, eventually slowing from gasping and attacking into a slower, wetter rhythm. Bucky felt Steve loosen his grip on his shirt, sliding his hands down his chest and gripping his hips to pull him closer. Bucky dropped his hand when Steve ghosted his tongue along his lower lip, and cupped the back of his neck, pressing his chest closer to Steve’s. The kiss slowed naturally, sweetly, and stopped when Steve leaned his forehead on Bucky’s, their eyes closed, sharing breaths between damp, parted lips. Bucky sighed quietly and let it out in a small chuckle, feeling Steve snickering beneath his hands, snorting a little and making them both laugh.

  
“You didn’t need to worry about me findin’ it weird, Stevie.” Bucky mumbled, pulling back and opening his eyes to look at him properly. “You ain’t the only one who’s been agonisin’ about…whatever this is.” Steve smiled, took Bucky’s hand from where it rested on his jaw, and kissed his palm, above the scuffs from last week’s fight that were still healing over.

  
“We’re idiots, y’know that?” He said softly. Bucky smirked in reply and wrapped his arms around Steve’s shoulders, pulling him close and shutting his eyes again when their foreheads touched once more. Steve curled his arms around his waist, rubbing his thumbs in little circles on the stiff shirt fabric and leaving smudges of pencil. Not even the static from the radio losing the signal for a second broke the reverie, and the lilting voice floated through the air to the young men embracing against the old chipped desk:

  
_“….Baby, you could love me too_  
_Oh my darling, if you do –_  
_Why haven’t you told me?”_

  
Bucky couldn’t even find it in him to be annoyed at the song. He simply pulled Steve closer to him and burrowed his head into the crook of the blond’s neck, tuning everything else in the world out, even if it was just for the afternoon.

  
_I’ve got to admit it, that song is kinda growin’ on me._

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed my first solo fic! Criticism, feedback, screaming about how amazing these two idiots are into the void are all welcome.


End file.
